The Swarm (46 page)

 

CHAPTER 21

Silicon

May she see with her eyes the sorrow of destruction.

May she hear with her ears the cries of the innocent.

May she lift with her hands the load of the burdened.

May she break with her strength the weapons of war.

May she forgive with her heart the violence against her.

May she grasp with her mind the goodness of man.

May she find with her soul the pathway to peace.

—Prayer for the Hive Queen, from the prayer book of Wilasanee Saowaluk, Hegemony Archives, 2118

Wila sat alone in the cafeteria in the semidarkness, eating a bowl of peach-flavored oatmeal. The food at the Rings was some of the best she had ever eaten, with dishes from all over the world and desserts so rich every bite was like a dream. But the breakfast lines didn't open for another two hours, and so she had resigned herself to one of the self-serve oatmeal packets kept in a bin near the serving lines. It was a poor substitute for the ham and cheese omelets that the kitchen staff was scheduled to serve later, but it was no worse than the food she had eaten back home.

In fact, there had been some days, working hard on her dissertation, that she had not eaten at all. Her cupboards had been bare, not because she couldn't afford to buy food but because she couldn't be bothered with such an uninspiring task as grocery shopping. Time was too precious. There was too much to write. And so rather than get dressed and go out and buy herself sustenance, she had pushed on in her pajamas and told herself she was fasting.

She smiled and shook her head at the memory; she could laugh about it now. But in truth, it had not been all that long ago. Her dissertation had consumed her life. Researching, writing, editing, cutting. And in the end all that effort had amounted to nothing.

No, that wasn't true. Her research had led to this job. It was not a job in academia like she had always hoped, but the work was important. No, more than important. It was the only work that mattered, really, and she was right at the heart of it.

She still could not believe that she was here, living in the Rings, circling the Formic scout ship. So much of her research had focused on the creatures and plant life that had thrived in the oxygen-producing garden on that ship, and now here she was, only a few meters from it.

She had not actually gone to the ship yet, but her colleagues had assured her that the opportunity would eventually come. She spent much of her spare time gazing up through the portholes in the ceiling on the top floor of the research facility, the floor that was closest to the ship. She would look up at the ship as it rushed past, as if it were spinning on its axis like a top, its red surface sometimes glinting in the sun. But of course the scout ship was motionless, locked in Earth's geosynchronous orbit, and it was Wila who was moving around it.

The size of it. That had been the most alarming thing. She had known of course precisely how big it was, but numbers on a screen could not do the real thing justice. Was she right about its construction?

“Can't sleep?”

The voice startled her. She turned and saw Dr. Dublin enter through the door behind her. He was still wearing his lab coat and the clothes he had worn yesterday. His thin hair was unkempt, his slacks wrinkled, as if he had fallen asleep in the lab again and had just now awoken to find everyone gone.

Wila smiled to herself. Dublin was an eccentric character, and yet Wila could not help but like him. She marveled at how focused he could become. Time seemed to stop in his mind whenever he stepped into the lab and began a task, as if the rest of the world had melted out of existence. It made him notoriously late for meetings—if he showed up for them at all—and it had earned him a great deal of harmless ribbing from the other researchers. Or at least they thought it was harmless. Dublin took it all in stride with a good-natured laugh, but Wila had sensed embarrassment and sorrow and maybe even a little shame in those eyes.

She had imagined him as a child among his peers at school. Awkward, quiet, isolated, bullied probably. He had made friends, no doubt, but they were probably the kind who had abandoned him as soon as their association with him had threatened their own social standing. False friends. The kind who blew about like dandelions seeds—as soon as you thought you had caught one, the slightest gust ripped it away and carried it elsewhere.

“What's on the menu there?” he asked, bending forward to examine her cup.

“Oatmeal from the bins up front,” she said, pointing to where they were located.

“Hmm,” he said. “I didn't know we had bins.”

He shuffled off and returned a minute later with a cup of his own.

“You didn't heat it up,” said Wila. “You just added water. We have mini ovens, you know.”

He looked in the direction of the ovens, as if he had only remembered that they were there. Then he dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Eh, it's going down the gullet whether it's warm or cold.” He took a bite. “You always up this early?”

“The change in time zones,” she said. “My body has not yet adjusted.”

In truth, she had always been an early riser, but the change in sleep schedule here had not helped.

He gestured to the small book on the table beside her. “Your journal?”

“My prayer book,” said Wila.

He looked intrigued and extended a hand. “May I?”

“By all means,” she said, lifting it and giving it to him. “The more of us who reach for peace, the more likely we are to find it.”

He flipped through the pages. “You wrote all these?”

The prayers were handwritten, some quickly, some stylishly, some with little doodles around their edges.

“Some of them,” Wila said. “Others I found in books. Several are from Master Arjo. He is the master of a temple in Thailand I frequented since I was a child. He always prayed in solitude, but he would tell me his prayers afterward if I asked.”

“You have beautiful penmanship,” said Dublin. “The letters are written so small and yet so precisely that they look printed.”

Wila smiled. “You are kind. Do they have prayers in your faith, Dr. Dublin?”

He chuckled. “I was raised Catholic. My mother prayed as often as she breathed. We went to Mass three times a week, she and I. I think that's what turned me off to it in the end. The relentless pursuit of it, that and the fact that my mother's prayers never seemed to do much good.”

“Oh?”

“My father was still abusive and unfaithful to her, no matter how many saints my mother implored. I think she believed God would fix the whole thing. She died before my father did, and she never left him. I find it rather depressing, to be honest.”

“I am sorry for your sorrow. And for hers. In my faith we believe that those who are compassionate and kind in this life will find themselves in a better situation in their next life. By that rule, I believe your mother is happier now.”

“And my father? What of him? I suppose he's a mule on a farm somewhere.”

Wila blushed and lowered her gaze. “I have offended you. That was not my intent.”

He chuckled, still flipping through her book. “You haven't offended me, Wila. I find your faith fascinating. But I see here that your prayers don't invoke any God or supreme being. Who do you pray to exactly?”

“To no one,” said Wila. “Buddhist prayers are not addressed to any enlightened being. Not even to the Buddha. I say them to myself, to strengthen my resolve to end suffering and to see to it that all beings flourish.”

Dublin closed the book and set it down. “When you say all beings, does that include the Formics? Do you pray that the Formics flourish?”

Wila hesitated. “That is a delicate question, Dr. Dublin. But a good one to propose. Buddhists have given it much consideration since the First Formic War, and I, in my time alone, have meditated a great deal on the subject as well. A Buddhist seeks enlightenment, to reach the full potential of the mind, to advance to the highest state of wisdom and compassion. This requires that we seek to alleviate all suffering around us, that we demonstrate kindness to all creatures in millions of forms throughout infinite universes, not just to the creatures that originate from our own community, but the creatures from all communities.”

Dublin raised an eyebrow. “So you think we should be kind to the Formics? Even though they want to annihilate us?”

“As I said, it is a complicated question and a complicated answer,” Wila said. “What is a Formic? Why did they come? Do we truly understand their mind? Is our own conscious mind fully awake on the subject? You say they want to annihilate us, but is that their goal?”

“They killed forty million people in China,” Dublin said. “They murdered children and families indiscriminately. They would have kept going if we hadn't stopped them. Their intentions seem pretty obvious to me.”

“Yes, to you,” Wila said. “But would the Formics agree with your assessment? Would they think your interpretation of their motivations correct? I am not trying to defend their actions or condone the atrocities they committed. I only mean to propose that we do not understand the Formic mind. And until you understand the mind, you understand nothing.”

Dublin frowned and scratched at the side of his mouth.

“I have upset you again,” said Wila. “My apologies.”

“Stop apologizing. You haven't upset me. I'm just surprised. I've never met anyone who takes the Formics' side before.”

“You misunderstand me, Dr. Dublin. I do not take any creature's side. I merely seek to understand it. I cannot relieve the suffering of something I do not understand.”

Dublin shrugged. “Well, no one here objects to learning more about the Formics or seeking to understand them. That's one of the purposes of this facility. But you'll be hard-pressed to find anyone else on board who wants to show the Formics any compassion.”

“I recognize that my viewpoint is unique, Dr. Dublin. That is why I do not generally discuss it openly.”

“I read your dissertation,” said Dublin. “Or most of it anyway. There were some dry parts I skimmed over.”

Wila suppressed a smile. Dublin was someone who had no clue how his candor could come off as offensive.

“You're not the only person to find fault with my dissertation,” Wila said. “I was not awarded my degree.”

He shrugged. “What's a piece of paper? As you said, it is the mind that matters. If you achieved greater enlightenment, who cares what the academic bozos think?”

Wila blinked, a little startled. “I have never looked at it from that perspective. Which is embarrassing since that is obviously the Buddhist perspective. Of course you are right. I see now that I allowed pride to keep me from reaching the same conclusion.”

He waved her gratitude away. “Your theories on the Hive Queen. Some of them were fascinating. Some downright strange.”

“They
should
seem strange. The Hive Queen is alien by definition. She evolved from a completely different protein structure. Every aspect of her life—physical, emotional, psychological, biological—should feel incongruent with our own.”

“You speak as if her existence is an incontrovertible fact.”

“Not at all,” said Wila. “She is a theory. But we do have observational data to suggest that a being like the Hive Queen probably exists. It is a creature with mental abilities and influence unlike anything our planet has ever seen. Her mind can reach across vast distances instantaneously and command an army of Formics. And the power of that command is so strong that all Formics obey it without hesitation or resistance. The Hive Queen could be another species, certainly, but the more likely scenario is that she is an alpha of the same species. A super Formic of sorts. Nearly identical genetically to her offspring, but different enough to endow her with a heightened mental awareness and connectivity. She must be able to think for tens of thousands of her children at once. She sees what each Formic sees, and processes all that data simultaneously.”

“So the Formics are her puppets.”

“Puppet might be too strong of a word as that would imply absolute and total control. I think it more likely that the Formics each have their own mental capacity. So she orders them to attack, but she doesn't dictate every swing of their weapon, or parry, or feint.”

“Maybe they simply have a hive mind that self-governs,” said Dr. Dublin. “Maybe their collected conscience is all there is. They are aware of each other and always act in the interest of the hive.”

“Perhaps,” said Wila. “But there are other signs that hint at a Hive Queen's existence. You are familiar with the disembowelment ritual that the Formics performed on slain humans?”

“I usually don't discuss it over a bowl of oatmeal, but yes. You mean when a Formic finds a human corpse, cuts open the stomach, and then reaches up inside the chest cavity.”

“Any idea why they would do that?” Wila asked.

“I've heard theories,” said Dublin. “None of them very convincing, truth be told. One idea is that the Formics are looking for the human heart so that they might squeeze it in a show of respect. A warrior's ritual, acknowledging the bravery of a slain enemy. Another idea is the opposite view, that they are desecrating our dead, mocking us. A third idea is that they are planting something inside the corpses, but a study of disemboweled people after the war found no evidence of that.” He shrugged. “You have a theory?”

“What is the most valuable asset of any community?” Wila asked. “Particularly a warrior culture? What resource must they protect more than any other?”

Dublin shrugged. “Their food supply?”

“Their womb,” said Wila. “If the women of their community cannot birth children, their culture will die out.”

“You think the Formics cut people open looking for a womb? They disemboweled women as often as men. The Formics found wombs. And yet they kept looking. Rooting around inside women didn't slow their search.”